


The One Where They Find Out

by bottleredhead



Series: Thou Shalt Suffer - And Be Fucking Happy About It [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Courf is an idiot but what's new, Grantaire is hot, M/M, Promptfic, the Amis didn't know, this is a fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Amis knew Grantaire was athletic - they just never saw how his extra curricular activities reflected on his body.</p>
<p>(Or: The one with Facebook, falling off chairs and Grantaire-induced boners.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where They Find Out

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt link: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=7974377#t7974377
> 
> Hot Grantaire = everything I ever wished for.

It starts as all Horrible, No Good, Bad Ideas do: with Courfeyrac.

It’s Friday and Enjolras has once more coerced (more like threatened with pain of castration) the Amis to give up their plans in favour of spending another night preaching the abysmal state of humanity in the Café Musain. It’s not as though the group doesn’t want to better the state of civilisation, really; it’s just that, heaven forbid, they want to place the revolution on pause and enjoy a night out without being on the receiving end of Enjolras’   
You-Just-Killed-My-Mother Look.

Needless to say, none spare Combeferre are actually revolution-ing with Enjolras. The rest are otherwise occupied with trying to alleviate the complete, total and utter boredom they feel.

“Man, let’s just get out of here,” murmurs Bahorel to Feuilly surreptitiously, as though fearing Enjolras’ wrath. “This is a total waste of bar-hopping time.”

Feuilly merely nods in sympathy before returning his attention to the cards game he’s having with Joly. 

“Speaking of bars, where’s Grantaire?”

Eponine and Jehan, being Grantaire’s roommates, blink at Bahorel before looking to the other. “Dunno.”

Looking up from his phone’s screen, Courfeyrac surveys the café for a moment to ascertain that Grantaire’s absence. “Maybe he has a shift at a bar or something? Didn’t he say he had taken on extra shifts to pay for the night classes he’s been taking to strengthen his life drawings?”

Several shocked eyes turn to Courfeyrac, who just shrugs. “What? I pay attention to stuff, sometimes.”

They lapse into silence again, except for Enjolras and Combeferre who weren’t in the conversation to begin with, instead focusing on the laptop screen in front of them.

So that’s why when ten minutes later, Courfeyrac lets a squeak and falls off his chair, everyone startles horribly.

“Oh my God!” comes the scandalised yell from the floor, Courfeyrac still lying on the floor. Jehan moves over the just-vacated chair to peer at him curiously. The poet’s hair falls forward and tickles the fallen boy’s hair.

“What is it?”

Bahorel snickers. “Someone sent you a dirty text message?”

Courfeyrac shoots him an evil look. “No! And even if it was, I’m perfectly capable of sexting.” He looks fleetingly at Jehan when he says this, who promptly turns an interesting shade of pink.

This draws raucous laughter from Feuilly. “Oh! Been deflowering our innocent little poet, have you?”

Jehan glares at being called ‘little’. He might be effeminate and delicate-looking, but under his flowery jeggings and oversized sweaters is a tough, don’t-fuck-with me interior. He has to be able to defend himself what with the way he dresses, seeing as his hometown was redneck territory.

“What’s got you sprawled on the floor, Courf?” asks Combeferre, and they can all hear the exasperated tone to his words. Combeferre constantly wonders how he got roped into being friends with these idiots. It’s a miracle, really, that Enjolras has not ended up murdering one of them if Combeferre has the same urge occasionally – because if Combeferre is anything, then it’s calm as fuck. And when Combeferre gets out of control, then you know shit’s about to go down.

Courfeyrac, because he is a drama queen above all else, shields his face with the back of one hand while thrusting his phone at Combeferre with the other. “Take it – I cannot bear being lied to so cruelly.”

Amused, the bespectacled man grabs the phone…

…and almost drops it in shock, eyes going wide behind his glasses.

“Oh. Oh my.”

Curious as to what can make the ever-so-composed man be surprised almost to the point of incoherency, the Amis spring from their chairs to crowd around Courfeyrac’s smart phone, whose screen is shining like a beacon in the dimly-lit café. 

“Is that-“

“Oh my God, no way-“

“Are you sure-“

“It is! I cannot believe-“

“What the fuck?”

On the screen, as real as Enjolras’ hair and Cosette’s impossibly blue eyes and the Eiffel Tower, is a series of Facebook pictures. They all feature the same person, and in each picture his shirtlessness is accompanied by taped-up hands and sexy, I’m-a-bad-fucker sweat. 

The person is Grantaire. Who looks like an Adonis. A really, really erotic-looking Adonis not unlike those on the covers of trashy Harper Romance erotica novels that menopause-suffering housewives secretly pick up at bookstores. 

“What the fuck!” wails Courfeyrac, still prostrate on the floor. “Why didn’t anyone tell me that Grantaire is hot?!”

**Author's Note:**

> This is slightly cracky, and shall continue to be so.
> 
> Kudos and comments very welcome!
> 
> Find me at enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com


End file.
